


Carving into skin

by 99MillionMiles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brain!damaged Jim, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Seb is so patient with him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6849331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/99MillionMiles/pseuds/99MillionMiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're beautiful, Jim. <em>Richard</em>. Whatever it was in your head that made you so unhappy, it's finally gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carving into skin

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo....this was a little nothing that I've written in just an hour and half. I don't know, maybe I just needed to get it out of my system.  
> All mistakes are mine! English is not my first language, so I've probably made a lot of them. Sorry.  
> Enjoy.

I can barely even recognize you, Jim.  
You're laying in this hospital bed, sleeping peacefully. When are you going to wake up?  
It has been three months already.  
I keep coming here, even if you clearly don't want to open your eyes. You've always been so fucking stubborn, Jim, it makes my blood rush in my veins.  
What was going on in that crazy, brilliant head of yours? When you decided that having a bullet flying out of your face was a good idea, I mean. I still don't understand.  
What kind of demons used to torture you? Are they gone now?  
Please, Jim, come back here.

 

I had to do a few things to be sure to be allowed here, you know.  
You'll kill me the moment you wake up, I don't doubt it in the slightest- but they would have taken you away from me, and i couldn't bear it. I never will. I found the right people, they provided me the right documents, and. Here we are.  
How does it feel to be husbands? There's a ring on your finger and there's one on mine, too.  
God. You're going to skin me alive.  
But there was no other way. You know that, right?  
Fucking wake up already. 

 

And then, you suddenly _do_ wake up.  
I'm the first person you see, the exact moment your eyelids flutter open- I can't even trust _my_ own eyes.  
The doctors send me away as you try to fight back all the machines attacked to your body, like the one that helps you breathe. Especially that one.  
Here I stand, staring at a closed door and hoping to force it open just by glaring fiercely at it. I can't believe you're finally awake, and that this fucking door is the only obstacle that keeps me from running to you.  
That's what I do, isn't it? I'm your bodyguard. I run to you when you need me. I save your life.  
I couldn't let you die there on the rooftop, Jim. I had to call an ambulance and I did my best to explain everything to the doctors. I said you were depressed and just tried to commit suicide. I hope you don't get angry and think that these people could have feel pity for you -even if they probably did.  
When the door opens, it feels like hours passed. Who knows, maybe they did.  
The doctors finally let me in, _“you can now see your husband, Mr. Moran.”_  
I swallow as I walk in, hearing the door closing behind me.  
You're staring at me, and seeing you finally awake makes my heart flutter in my chest.  
You'd kill me for being so fond, but I just can't help it.  
You look at me as I was some feral being, staring at me prudently and attentively.  
Your eyes look...different. That's the first thing I notice. They seem... _scared_.  
“Hey” I say, approaching you. You instinctively move your back against the headboard of your bed, and I sit down, on the chair next to you.  
“Hey” I repeat. “You angry with me?” I ask.  
You slowly shake your head- that's a relief.  
“Seb?” you say, quietly. I nod.  
“Yeah. What's wrong?”  
You shrug, looking down at your legs, covered by the white sheets. “My memories are...confused” he says, quietly, once again. “The images, they're...they are all mixed up. In my head.”  
I try my best to swallow my need to take your hand and hold it, because I'm not sure of what you're doing. Are you just pretending to not remember anything? Is this some kind of test?  
With you, I can never be sure.  
Your gaze returns on me. “What happened? Who am I?”  
My eyes widen.  
“You're Jim” I answer, without thinking. This is so weird. “James. James Moriarty, actually. You're...Jim, are you testing me? You know I know everything about you. Well, maybe not actually _everything_ , there are secrets you want to keep to yourself, but you're...come on, this is ridiculous. You're a criminal. A consulting criminal. Does it ring a bell?”  
I don't ask myself if I've been too harsh. That's the only way to make it work between me and you, Jim. And I'm already done with this. You wake up after _months_ , and the first thing you do is testing me?  
I...understand, actually. You can't trust anyone in this world. Maybe you're actually confused and need to know who I am.  
Maybe it's just a moment. Your eyes look lost as I speak.  
“What?” you just ask me. “A _criminal_? Is that what I really am?”  
I just nod. I don't see where the problem is. “Yeah.”  
You just blink, and you look so very lost. I wonder if it's just another show you're putting on, just to see if I can keep up. Of course I can, Jim.  
“Take me home” you say, voice barely audible.  
I do as you wish, as always.

 

You don't question the rings on our fingers. You don't question our home or our cars, your fancy suits.  
But when you open your closet, you smile and laugh quietly.  
“Why do I keep all of this stuff?” you ask amusedly. You'd never call your suits _stuff_.  
“You, ah. Love to own a hundred of them.” Or at least, I think so. I've never understood your weird obsessions.  
You let out another quiet laughter, and decide to prove some of your suits on. You look at me hesitantly as you start undressing, but stop halfway to bite your lower lip.  
“Could you...?” you ask me. It takes me a little time to understand that you're asking me to leave the room. “Sorry” you say, a genuine, shy smile on your lips- and in your eyes, too. It completely takes me unprepared. “I know we're, uh. Husbands. I just-”  
You _genuinely_ think we're married. I just blink a few times, and barely nod as I leave you alone to your suits.  
When I close the door, I move my back against it as I need immediate support.  
I can't believe it.  
You've forgotten _everything_.

 

You insist on being told everything you've done in your past.  
I decided not to tell you anything, since you are so...calm, now. You smile, you _laugh_. You lay next to me when it's time to go to bed, and you finally get to sleep peacefully, with no demons jerking you awake several time during the night.  
It's...for the best. It really is.  
But, when you _keep_ asking me, it's like you _know_ you've done something very, very bad.  
“Sebastian” you say, tone firm and voice calm. It makes my senses go alert. “I want you to tell me. _Everything_. You're keeping from me.”  
And when you ask things that way, memories suddenly hit me. I know what you become when you're angry. I have your temper carved into my skin, as well as your name. You loved to draw my skin with my blood.  
It's just survival instinct. And I open my mouth to speak.  
You just stare at me as I speak, just like you did the first time I introduced you to your past. You barely even blink as I tell you of your crimes, of all the people you've killed, of all the families and all the children you've ended. You look horrified by the end of it- to be honest, you don't even make it halfway.  
You can't keep listening to your own past. You cover your ears with your hands and beg me to stop.  
I do. I widen my eyes, but I do.  
“You were the one to ask me to do this” I remind you.  
“I was _wrong_ ” you admit.  
You look so fragile, so...so _not you_. I can't fight my own instincts back, and I open my arms. You nuzzle into my chest almost instantly, and start crying.  
“I don't want to be called Jim _ever_ again, Seb” you sob, your voice muffled by my chest.  
I tenderly caress your hair, letting you shake in my arms as I hold you close. “What do you want to be called, then?”  
I've always tried to indulge you, Jim. Even in your craziest plans.  
“Does Richard sound good to you?” you ask after some minutes, shoulders still trembling in my arms.  
“Yeah” I say, softening my voice. I can't help but smile. You sound genuinely worried, you- you want me to like your new name. You want my approval. “Yeah, it does. It sounds really good to me...Richard.”  
I stay still, holding you close to me. As you sob quietly into my chest, I realize it's the very first time I've ever held you in my arms.  
I whisper quiet little nothings in you ear, trying to soothe you. You've never cried so much, not even in your worst days, when you desperately wanted to die and cried and screamed, yelling to me that I had to let you _go_.  
I _can't_ let you go.  
“I'm not sorry I saved you” I say into your hair. “I'm glad I did, actually.”  
“You are?” you sob.  
“I am” I reassure you, placing my head on yours and waiting until you stop crying.

 

I've taken you here, since it's quiet and very far from everything.  
You loved to come here when you needed to relax. Apparently, you still do- you sit _exactly_ where you used to.  
You look up at the sky and, one of these nights, you ask me to join you on the rooftop. Seeing you here still makes me uncomfortable. You point your finger to the sky and show me every constellation.  
You tell me the myths behind the names of the stars, look sad when you speak about Andromeda. And then, you take my hand in yours, but don't stop talking. I wonder if you even realize it.  
When you turn your face towards me, I've long stopped looking up at the sky. The stars shine in your big, black doe eyes, and they're _not_ empty, like they used to be. They're full of light and they're always smiling gently, widening at everything as you stare in wonder at every little thing I do, as I was some kind of hero.  
You're beautiful, Jim. _Richard_. Whatever it was in your head that made you so unhappy, it's finally gone.  
I can feel your breath on my lips, just some inches away from my mouth. I look down at it; I haven't kissed you in a very long time, but your lips still look red, swollen, and waiting for me to kiss them.  
I look back into your eyes, asking for some kind of permission. You must read my intentions in my eyes as well, because you just nod as your eyelids flutter closed.  
I finally close the distance between our mouths, and you hold my hand tighter as I kiss you.  
It's not as gentle as I'd like it to be, but I've been waiting for this for too long. My free hand moves to caress your nape, and I can feel your scar underneath my fingertips.  
Your fingers stroke the skin of my cheek tenderly, as a little moan escapes from your lips. My tongue slides against yours, exploring your mouth and finally tasting you again.  
I've missed you so bad.  
I don't ever want to stop kissing you, but you move away a bit and let out a breathless laughter as you blush, trying to regain your breath. I look into your eyes- or _try_ to, since you're suddenly very shy and look down, between our bodies. The tender expression on your face makes my hands itch, desperate to touch you- so I do, I do touch you. I run my fingers through your black hair, kissing you again.  
It feels so good, to finally be able to do this again.  
This night, we _make love_. That's what you call it- if I say _fucking_ , you'll go mad and correct me instantly.  
Even having sex with you feels completely different from doing it with _Jim_. Jim was restless, dominant, always mixing pleasure and pain together until it was impossible to separate them. Jim wanted blood and wanted to be tamed until he was sobbing, helpless to do anything. He needed to be out of breath, bleeding and gasping to finally surrender.  
You, Richard, on the other hand...you're patient, you like to be teased, you let your wrists fall to the pillow without me even asking, and you completely trust me with your body. You moan and whine and let me know just how much you like what I do to you. You're not as vocal as you used to be, but you're so much more passionate than before. You want to please me in every way possible, and you don't stop until we're both satisfied. You like slow, gentle love-making, ask me to roll my hips carefully inside your body, to keep a slow pace and let you savor every sensation. You whisper my name lovingly as I trail kisses down you neck, your collarbones, your chest. The only time you draw blood is when your nails sink in the skin of my back, as I thrust deeper and faster when we're both close.  
You fall asleep in my arms, and I've never felt happier in my fucking life.

 

Eventually, I start missing the old you.  
There are things that you do, that remind me of Jim. The way your face completely changes when you're angry at someone who almost hit you with their car- you hiss and yell that you're going to _make them into shoes_ , and I just gasp before I try to make you calm down.  
You wear your suits more often, you say they make you look _powerful_. Then you ask _me_ how you look, and I wonder if you really need my approval as much as it seems.  
Your eyes widen as you watch horror movies, but every other kind of movie seems to bore you. You can already tell how it ends. What scares me, is that we actually already saw those movies together, but you can't recall it.  
You _growl_ at your old name inked in my skin. You dip your nails inside old scars, where you carved your old name. Once, you take the knife you know I always keep with me, ask me who gave it to me as a gift -and, once again, _how_ can you tell that it's actually a gift and not something I bought for myself?  
“It was you” I reply, watching you as your eyes bore into mine, feral with rage.  
“It was _Jim_ ” you correct me, and proceed carving your new name into my skin.  
It hurts, but not as bad as it used to. You don't know how to actually do it, you tend to press too hard into my skin, but I'm used to the pain. You're not as cruel as Jim used to be, but also not as methodical as him. You draw so much blood, you forget to wipe it away once too many times. It gets your hands dirty and, God, _Jim_ would hate it.  
You, on the other hand, lick your fingers and your palm clean, savoring my blood and, then, kiss me. You don't say that I'm yours, but you make it very clear anyway.  
You know my name is carved into your old skin too. You always try to scratch it away, saying that you don't own that name, because you weren't _there_ when I carved it into your skin.  
I always try to soothe you, try and joke to keep you calm and relaxed.  
“You can't erase it” I say, kissing your cheek tenderly. “You're mine. Get over it.”  
But it isn't enough for you. You hand me my own knife, just after you've sharpened it, and ask me to carve my name once again, in the same place on your skin.  
I tell you that it'll hurt. That you're going to scream, since you're not used to the pain anymore, and that you're going to hate every single minute of it.  
“You're not _him_ ” I remind you quietly. “You'll change your mind the second I sink the blade into your skin.”  
“I don't care” you say, eyes big with jealously and excitement. “Do it. _Now_.”  
I do as you say. That's what I always do, anyway. Now and always.  
And you do just what I said you were going to do, too- you scream and exhales abruptly as I move the blade into your skin, but luckily, your pain is too much for you to also keep your eyes open.  
You don't see a single tear rolling down my cheek, as I think that I'm erasing the last bit of _me and Jim_ that could actually still be seen on your body.

 

But, things get better. You cuddle with me on the grass, and don't want to move away not even when it rains, during hot summer evenings.  
These are the moments when I stop thinking about the old you, about Jim. You're someone different, now. _I_ am someone different, now.  
We've changed.  
And, for the better, I suppose.


End file.
